Unsheathed

What is sure to the mind of one is not
A surety insomuch as it's sure being
Is an actuality; when sure caught
Facts fixed upon the minds of the seeing
Are placed upon those of the blind, they say
What utter rot have you brought us today?
But a surety to the mind of one
Who knows it's worth, nay, believes in it's hue
To be what he did perceive, may then run
The race until the end, he will not rue
Until after he crosses the wrongness
Of his judgement, and then he will confess.
Yet all of this to men of disbelief
I likened to a sword still in it's sheaf.

                  Unsheathed, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012